


Stones and Kings of Old

by ForestSeaWitch



Series: The Monster You Know [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Trauma, Extreme emotional distress, Like Glacial Slow, M/M, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, coporal punishment, forced penetration, forced performance sex, seriously if you read these and are still mad i can't help you, slow slow healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestSeaWitch/pseuds/ForestSeaWitch
Summary: Beware all who enter here. This was somehow harder to write than the last Jaskier chapter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Ramsay Bolton, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Ramsay Bolton, Jaskier | Dandelion/Theon Greyjoy
Series: The Monster You Know [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642081
Comments: 44
Kudos: 70





	1. The Straw Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Beware all who enter here. This was somehow harder to write than the last Jaskier chapter.

**“Jeymes…put some fucking clothes on,”** Ramsay threw a pile of rags at him, and Jaskier barely flinched. A rough hand smacked him upside the head, and the broken bard finally nodded, slowly getting up from the spot he’d sat in. He had spent the past days in the corner, staring at the wall and hoping he would be left alone. One of Ramsay’s “Bastard Boys” had been granted access to Jaskier’s cell, and made up for what Theon lacked, multiple times. Jaskier had retched after every time, much to Ramsay’s delight. Apparently it helped him be thinner, so he wouldn’t be such an embarrassment. Jaskier didn’t know how much two weeks of starving and vomiting could do, but he had noted that his stomach was sinking in on itself, but only slightly. Had it been two weeks? Or had it been a year? With Ramsay keeping him awake constantly, he no longer had a sense of time’s passage.

Jaskier shakily stood, his head going numb and his vision becoming blurry for a moment. He steadied himself on the wall, catching his breath before attempting to pull on the breeches he’d been given. **“Your sister-by-law has been acting up. Telling me she’s not Arya Stark and that she never was. And you’ve been behaving so well, I thought perhaps you might want to help me convince her she’s wrong.”** He nearly fell, twice, trying to pull up those trousers. Fastening them was easy enough, thankfully. The shirt he’d been given was just slightly too large for his frame. 

Ramsay grabbed Jaskier by the arm, dragging him out of his dungeon cell. Jaskier cried out briefly, his foot shooting with pain as he was forced to walk on it. His brother sank in his sharp fingernails, which made him whimper more. **“Stop your _sniveling_ , cunt. You have to show some decorum. You’re still my brother, you know.”** Jaskier would have laughed if he still had his sense of humor. If this was how Ramsay treated his brother, how did he treat someone he genuinely hated and with whom he shared no blood? He was sure that he didn’t want to know.

He could hear the girl crying before they even reached Ramsay’s chambers, and it wrenched his gut. Whoever she was, she didn’t deserve whatever horrors she’d experienced in this hell. Ramsay pushed the door open, and the girl who claimed not to be Arya quickly stood, wiping her eyes. **“Tell her, Jeymes.”** What was he meant to tell, though? The last time he’d seen Arya Stark, she had been barely…two or three? Jaskier had a good memory, but faces changed over the course of a decade. Secretly, though, he thought she looked older than Arya ought to be. 

**“Please…my lords…please my name is Jeyne Poole…I’m not Arya Stark. I’m _not_!”** She was sobbing again, and had dropped to her knees before Jaskier, grabbing his trousers. Jeyne nearly pulled them off him in her desperation. In his heart, the bard knew she was telling the truth. And that meant Ramsay had no claim to Winterfell other than by the blood spilled on its walls. Jaskier tried stepping back from her, shaking his head. Ramsay had put him in the worst possible position, and he had done so entirely on purpose. 

**“Well? _Tell her_ ,”** Ramsay growled. He turned to reach for something, and Jaskier took the moment of his inattention to stroke her hair and silently apologize for what he had to do.

**“You’re Arya Stark,”** his voice cracked as he spoke the words to her. Jaskier hated himself as Jeyne let go of him, collapsing onto the floor in tears. This nightmare was inescapable for them all. If he had tried to affirm her words, Ramsay would have hurt them both, in the worst possible ways. The poor girl was already traumatized. If he had the means, he would have slit her throat here and now and ended her suffering. Better to die cold and afraid than endure another moment of Ramsay’s tortures.

The Bastard pressed a metal rod into Jaskier’s hand. The bard looked at it with a frown, and felt the chilling wash of realizations freezing his bones within him. **“She’s trying to delegitimize my claim, Jeymes. And that is inexcusable. Punish her for her lies.”** Jaskier’s hand shook, and the memory of Ramsay doing this exact thing when they were children flashed in his mind. He had been weak then, and tried to appease his half-brother in the hopes that it would mean he might be left alone. He had been foolish to think it actually would, and found himself punished for not being harsh enough in his beating. Ramsay was going to hurt him no matter what he did; it didn't mean he had to torment another to try and spare his own hide.

**“No.”** His voice was stronger than it had been in days, and Jaskier silently thanked the gods for that. He let the rod clatter to the floor. Whatever was to happen, it should happen to _him_. Not her. 

Ramsay sneered at him, his wormy lips peeling back over his gleaming teeth. Despite the shivers over his flesh and the urge to make himself very small, Jaskier stood defiant, jaw tight. **“She’d see you dead if it meant she could leave me,”** Ramsay stepped close to him. A hand snapped around his neck, squeezing too tightly and making him sputter. Jaskier clawed at his arm, only to receive multiple blows to his gut. Black spots began to fill his vision, though Ramsay let go just as he thought he was going to pass out. Jaskier fell to the floor anyway, coughing wetly. 

**“I should have known. You were always a disappointment, Jeymes. Nothing’s changed that.”** Ramsay picked up the bit of metal and began to rain blows down on Jeyne, who shrieked and shielded her head with her arms. Jaskier could hear the cracking of her hands and fingers as they broke, and it made him want to retch.

**“S-stop…Ramsay…stop…”** Jaskier’s voice was raspy. He reached for Ramsay’s leg, and though he was weak, he had just enough strength to pull him somewhat off balance. His brother turned with an incensed glare, but he left Jeyne alone. As he took out his anger on Jaskier instead, the bard could only lie there and take it, hoping that it was enough to save her from a worse fate. How surprised was he, then, when he was dragged to the bare room down the hall, and kept there by a strong shackle about his ankle. In some ways it was better, since the cage had been growing far colder and damp. But here, he was much closer to Ramsay. It was not a pleasant move.  


  


* * *

  


  
Jaskier had gotten a little sleep, finally, though the meal he received that night was even more scarce than usual. That was fine, he hadn’t been hungry anyway, not after the beating he’d gotten. Maybe soon he’d starve to death, if he was lucky. But he knew better than to hope for that. Ramsay would make sure he was given _just enough_ to stay alive. Even if he had to force the food down Jaskier’s throat himself. That would not be at all pleasant, so Jaskier would have to eat, no matter how much he wanted to throw the plate at the nearest wall and see it all smashed. 

Though he had been able to sleep, Jaskier found he was hardly getting any rest. His nightmares were worse than they’d ever been, and now Geralt’s face was among his tormentors. The witcher came to him in his sleep to laugh and torment him, and to then slip away into the shadows as Jaskier begged for him to stay. He had to give up on Geralt, and he knew it. Every time he caught himself longing for the witcher, he mentally chided himself for it. It was stupid to do so, when he would never see Geralt again. His existence was…this. Whatever this was, now. 

Jaskier was woken from his troubled dreams by Ramsay bursting into the room, with Theon in tow. That was never a good sign, and Jaskier was further worried by the group that followed them inside. He recognized one of them, and quickly looked away from the group. It was Ramsay’s Bastard Boys. This was going to be the day he died, Jaskier was sure of it. 

**“I’m not sure my lessons are taking hold, Jeymes,”** Ramsay said, sounding far too pleased for Jaskier’s liking. **“But maybe the lessons were the wrong way around. You’re still a deviant, I can tell.”** The bard hugged his knees harder, hoping that this wasn’t going to be what he feared. And yet because it was Ramsay…he knew better than to hope for anything. 

Theon was shoved to the floor before him, making Jaskier jump with a whimper. **“Fuck him.”** He looked up at Ramsay, slowly, as if he couldn’t understand what he’d just said. The Bastard pulled Jaskier out of his corner, dragging him towards Theon. He didn’t know why Ramsay thought he could do this. In these circumstances, being watched by all these people…it wouldn’t work. It couldn’t.

**“If you don’t, I’ll chop it off so you _can’t_ ,”** Ramsay threatened with a sneer. While Jaskier stared up at him, Theon had already undressed, and was sullenly reaching for his trousers. The bard was startled, until Theon looked up at him with eyes that silently begged him to just do it. If he didn’t, they would both be punished for it. And whatever Ramsay had in mind, for refusing to perform in front of his friends.

**“I’m sorry,”** Jaskier whispered, pressing his forehead to Theon’s. He had to think of _something_ to excite himself. Once it would have been Geralt, and the thought would have been a happy one. Now, the memory was sour, even if his body betrayed him at the barest idea. Jaskier hated that all it took was a stroke and the memory of Geralt kissing him while they were drunk in their tent together, to stiffen his cock. **“I’m so sorry Theon,”** he muttered again, hoping that the man could hear him above the laughter and derisive comments thrown their way. 

Jaskier tried to go easy on him. He really did. He tried to loosen Theon so that it didn’t burn when he pushed in, but Ramsay shouted and threw a heavy vase at him for doing so. Jaskier did not enjoy it one bit, while he was rutting, though his body couldn’t know any better. Theon was facing away, and Jaskier hated himself for the silent tears that rolled down his face. He had endured so much under Ramsay’s grip, it killed Jaskier to have given him more torment. 

Ramsay loudly demanded that he finish inside Theon, and for half a moment Jaskier considered refusing the order. But it would be worse if he tried. So much worse. And so with a sobbing grunt, Jaskier emptied himself there, sunk deep into Theon. Ramsay ripped him away, telling his friends how Theon was good for nothing else now, than to be a toy for his wife and brother. 

**“We will have to try again, Jeymes. You’re still a deviant…what a shame.”**

When they finally left him alone, with plenty of kicks and sneering comments about his cock, Jaskier sobbed like he hadn’t in days. Ramsay was intent on taking everything from him.  


  


* * *

  


  
That morning, Jaskier had decided he was going to kill himself. Ramsay wasn’t going to let him die, not for a long time, and every day spent with him was just another day in this hell. He wouldn't let Ramsay have the satisfaction of breaking him like he'd broken Theon. Jaskier sat in his corner, staring out the window, at a sky that was eternally grey. If only he'd gone to the coast on his own, and left Geralt to his own devices. Then he would have never found himself back here. Jaskier planned to wait until his meagre breakfast was brought to him, and just hoped that he had enough strength to smash the plate so he could slit his wrists. He never felt more sure of anything in his life.

Jaskier waited. And he waited. Breakfast never came, for whatever reason, and he feared that Ramsay somehow knew what he’d been thinking. Had he spoken out loud in his sleep, and Ramsay had heard? Or was he being punished with starvation, for what he’d done to Theon yesterday? He hugged his legs and stared at the grey sky, numb to the feeling of tears running down his cheeks.

**“Jaskier!”** A voice echoed down the hallway. The bard cringed, burying his face into his knees to muffle his sob. He had thought this game was over, now. He hadn’t fallen for it the last three times Ramsay had tried to trick him, and then it had stopped. The voice called again, closer this time, sounding desperate. He continued to ignore it, making himself as small as possibly could in his corner. 

**“Jaskier!!”** Heavy steps pounded past his room, and for a few minutes, Jaskier thought he had escaped the torment. It was the only relief he’d felt since he arrived here. The voice and footsteps faded, and Jaskier leaned into the wall, whimpering softly. He looked around the room, wondering if there was anything he could reach that would work, since it was now clear that breakfast would not be coming for him.

As he contemplated trying to wrench the legs off the large wardrobe barely in reaching distance, the footsteps returned, and the door to his room was pushed open hard. **“Jaskier…gods…Jaskier?”** He ignored it with a steely look at the wall. Footsteps crossed the floor quickly, and a large hand gripped his shoulder, but softly. He was turned to look at the man, and his blue eyes widened with horror. Jaskier shrieked, scrambling to get away from him.

**“Jaskier, it’s me. It’s Geralt…”** His voice was soft and disturbed, and he reached for Jaskier again. 

The bard whimpered and shook his head, covering it with both hands. **“This is too far. Too far. I…I won’t try to leave. I promise. You shouldn’t have come, Geralt!”** Jaskier was sobbing, refusing to look at the witcher. It was truly him this time, though his hair was dark. Why had Ramsay brought him now, here? What was he trying to accomplish? **”Leave me! Or kill me! Please…please fucking kill me,”** he sobbed into his knees. Just when he thought the nightmare couldn’t get worse, Ramsay did _this_ to him. Maybe the witcher would show him some mercy and just slit his throat now, like he'd wished he could have done for Jeyne. 

While Geralt just knelt there looking lost, Jaskier tried to grab for one of his small blades, making an inhuman noise as he did. Geralt grabbed his wrists, and Jaskier didn’t recognize the look of fear on his face. It was foreign, and ridiculous. Witchers didn’t feel fear, especially for men they had abandoned and sold to a psychopath. 

**“Let me fucking die!”** he shouted, weakly trying to fight the grip that held his hands back. Geralt spoke some foreign word, freezing his mind and his body. Jaskier could barely hear the words out of the witcher’s mouth afterwards, but he instantly fell into a deep sleep, for once unplagued by nightmares.


	2. Ghost's Gasp

Geralt was awake well before the sunrise, but stayed still so Arya could have a bit more sleep. He could hear her slow, measured heartbeat, and sensed that she was warm enough under the pile of furs. Geralt considered telling her to wait in the camp. She was just a little girl, she didn’t need to go in and fight grown men three times her size, no matter what she insisted she could handle. He didn’t want to be responsible for another feral princess dying, even if it wasn’t his blade that ran her through. 

The girl stirred, grunting and stretching through a yawn that threatened to swallow her face. **“Geralt?”** she groggily asked, and the witcher grunted softly in response. **“It’s almost time, isn’t it?”**

He frowned, sitting up and listening to the forest that surrounded them. Nothing but small animals and Roach’s breathing. They hadn’t been discovered. **“You should stay here,”** he finally grunted, after a long moment of meditative silence. **“I’m just going in to get Jaskier. You-”**

**“Fuck you,”** she spat, suddenly wide awake and sitting up, glowering at him. Geralt rose an eyebrow at her, and she crossed her tiny arms, fixing him with a stare that the bard would almost certainly call a _scary face_. **“Winterfell is my _home_ , Geralt. It’s the last bit of my old life I can get my hands on right now. And I want it. We’re not letting him keep it.”** She stared until he relented with a grunt. 

**“I don’t want you to get hurt,”** was all he offered before going to prepare himself for the coming siege. If they were going to take this fortress, he was going to need his strength. Geralt counted his potions, pulling out two for stamina and power. He would need them. Geralt grabbed his neutralizing potion as well, just in case he needed it before their effects wore off completely.

**“Can I use one of them?”** Arya had left the tent, and Geralt almost yelled at her for not having pulled on a fur cloak. Couldn’t she feel the cold air biting at her skin?

**“No. You haven’t done the trials.”** Nor would she ever, likely. Geralt was trying not to make a habit of taking young girls to Kaer Morhen. The Child Surprise was a duty, a tradition, but this one…she had her life here. She could return to it. **“They could kill you.”**

A soft _oh_ of understanding came from her. Arya went for her pack on Roach’s flank, and pat the mare, getting a snort at her shoulder. **“Geralt? I want you to see this, so it…it’ll still be me. Just different. Alright?”**

The witcher stopped what he was doing, having strapped his chest armor and pauldrons into place. He watched as she pulled something that stunk of death and ale from her pack. Arya took a breath, and turned from him, pressing the fleshy thing to her face, grunting and hunching over. Her scent shifted in the wind, and it made the hair on Geralt’s neck stand, a soft growl building in his throat. He didn’t understand how it happened, but when Arya stood, a young blond man stood in her place. He…she turned, looking at Geralt apprehensively.

**“It’s still me,”** her voice was deeper, but the face she wore was examining his face. Geralt slowly stood, approaching Arya and smelling the air. Her scent was barely there, and fading quickly, replaced by the smell of this man. No longer death, which made Geralt recoil, some primal instinct within him disliking this change very much. But Arya just stood, waiting for him to accept and acknowledge the change.

**“Arya,”** he nodded as he spoke her name, more to ease his own discomfort than check that it was still her. The man nodded, strapping Needle to his hip. **“I don’t like this magic,”** was all he muttered, continuing to prepare himself. He snorted a little when Arya got close, the foreign scent filling his nose. 

**“The warging was fine, but this is too much?”** the body rose an eyebrow at him. 

Geralt grunted, strapping his swords to his back. **“You still smelled like yourself then.”** The blonde man’s eyes went wide, but he was silent, and nodded. Did Arya understand, then? Her scent was all but gone, but Geralt could find it, barely there and buried deep down, if he tried. The medallion around his neck thrummed uncomfortably. It was a persistent and passive magic, whatever this glamour was. Different to glamours he’d seen in the past, actually. 

**“Before the sun rises fully. We wait for the gate guards to change. Catch the new ones off guard, or slip in while they’re distracted.”** Geralt looked at Arya’s disguise, getting used to it. They would all smell different, he imagined, but he hoped that they didn’t have to go through this again. He understood why it was necessary, but he didn’t like it. **“And then find Ramsay. Kill him. Put you in your rightful place. Save Jaskier.”** It was the most simple of terms he could give, but it would not be as easy as that. 

They approached from the western wall, where it seemed there were far fewer guards posted. Easy to slip past. Geralt could hear Arya’s heartbeat in her borrowed face; measured, even, and the slowest of any human heart he could imagine in a situation like this. Slower than a teenage girl’s heart had any right to be. Geralt held his hand out to stop her from rushing forth, as the gate guards left their post. He could hear them chatting just inside the gates, not quite inside yet. Geralt grabbed the two vials from his belt, chugging them down. The effects were instant, making him feel monstrous and in constant pain, even as his body went through the changes required.

He heard Arya gasp at the sight, but ignored it, pressing forward silently as the guards retreated. **“Now,”** he grunted, slashing into the man who stepped out as a replacement watch. The man gurgled in place of a warning cry, and Arya’s dagger was in the second guard’s throat before he could process the scene before him. She was quick and nimble, dancing like he was used to seeing her do. It was just odd because it wasn’t her, even though it clearly was. 

They parted ways then, cutting through different waves of men who came to attack them. Geralt was nearly swarmed by five trying to jump on his back, but shook them off, throwing one hard enough against the brick wall that the back of his head exploded. He ran two men through at once, yelling as he pulled his sword back, slicing the fourth man’s throat, while the fifth ran off. The smell of shit filled his nostrils, making him growl. Geralt looked up to see Ramsay, watching him with a sour face. The cunt ran, and Geralt followed. 

His scent was easy to track, it was smeared all across the walls. The freshest of them, tinged with the stale acid of fear, led down to a crypt. Geralt stopped at the entrance, listening carefully, his senses well enhanced down here. He heard a rapid heartbeat just ahead, hiding behind a statue. His footsteps were silent, and as he approached he readied his steel blade, bringing it down and nearly slicing through the terrified man he found there. It wasn’t Ramsay. **“Where did he go?”** Geralt growled, grabbing the man’s shirt. He just whimpered and cowered, balling up into a mess on the floor when the witcher released him. 

A second heartbeat faintly sounded at the end of the dark corridor, and Geralt turned to the noise, following it with careful steps. The smell of shit grew stronger, and he was prepared, blocking the strike that came at him as Ramsay leapt from the ceiling at him. The cunt had been hiding on top of a statue in wait for him. Whoever that poor soul was further back in the crypt had just been bait, in an attempt to save his own hide.

In such close quarters, the fight was difficult with his sword, but not impossible. Ramsay was quick and small, and his daggers would have been fatal to any ordinary human. The cuts they dug into Geralt’s side merely annoyed him, though he could feel the warm rush of blood spilling from them. He allowed Ramsay to think he was wounded more badly than he was, to goad the little shit into getting closer for a victory strike. Geralt dropped his sword and faltered, leaning one hand against the wall.

**“Hmm. The way he spoke about you, I was expecting a better fight.”** Ramsay rushed forward, and his cockiness was his undoing. Geralt’s hand snapped around his throat, and the slices to his arms were useless. He grabbed first one hand, breaking it and loosing the dagger, and then repeated with the other, growling. The shrieks that came out of Ramsay’s mouth gave him little satisfaction. Geralt slammed him to the floor, glowering at him with a feral sneer.

**“Where is Jaskier?”** he demanded, quietly. Ramsay spat at him, and Geralt tightened his grip, waiting until the man began to sputter and choke before he let go. **“Where?”**

Ramsay grinned madly, a terrible, croaking laugh breaking from his throat. Geralt slapped him with a backhand, hearing the teeth in his head crack. **“Your little bard isn’t with us anymore,”** Ramsay coughed. Geralt shouted wordlessly at him, not believing the implication of his words. Ramsay just laughed, spitting blood at him again. **“Your _Jaskier_ is dead,”** he began to laugh like a man who had lost his mind completely.

Geralt wrapped both hands around Ramsay’s throat, squeezing, grunting, and then yelling a feral tone at him, until he felt the neck snap in his hands. He watched the life drain from Ramsay’s eyes. Finally Geralt stood, pressing his boot to Ramsay’s stomach and applying pressure, to no reaction. The only heartbeat was the frightened one still hidden between statues towards the crypt’s entrance. Geralt shoved the body one last time, satisfied that he was truly dead, and stomped towards the frightened man.

**“Please…please…”** he whimpered, shrinking from Geralt. The witcher had to still his temper, knowing that this man must have suffered under Ramsay as well. The man tried to shrink himself as tiny as possible, and his heartbeat was erratic, like a frightened rabbit. It would be more merciful to put him down. But perhaps he could be of use, for now.

Geralt shushed the man, kneeling down. He knew he must have presented a frightening visage at the moment, but the man wasn’t even looking at him. He shuddered, breathing out, his mouth opening a few times as though to speak. The foulest stench wafted from between his lips, and Geralt’s nose wrinkled. **“My note reached you,”** he finally whispered.

**“Reek.”** The man nodded, and shakily crawled out a meter, to look at Ramsay’s body. Reek broke down sobbing, his body relaxing completely against the cold floor. **“I need to find Jaskier. Please, Reek. Please…tell me he’s still alive.”** Geralt wasn’t ready to take the neutralizing potion just yet, just in case he had to fight further men. Nobody had followed him down here, thankfully. Reek looked at him with watery eyes, looking full of guilt. Geralt’s heart dropped to his stomach, and he shook his head, falling back against a statue.

**“He can’t be…no. He isn’t…”** Was he too late? This was his fault. It was all his fault. 

Reek shakily got up to his knees, his breathing labored as he made to stand. **“Not yet…not yet. He’s…Jeymes…follow me.”** Geralt was instantly up, following Reek as he shambled along. When they entered the courtyard, he saw many more dead bodies than he left here. Arya had made swift work, it seemed. And there she was, having removed the false face, and surrounded by protective staff. Had it been so easy to win them over, then? It must have been; they would have known Arya as a child, and likely worked under her father. Abandoning Ramsay must have been an easy choice for them. Two of the soldiers drew their swords upon seeing Geralt, but sheathed them again at a word from Arya. Geralt pulled the potion from his pack, downing it and wincing as his previous enhancements were negated, painfully. 

**“In…in there. He’s in there,”** Reek muttered, hesitating to enter the main building, it seemed. Geralt nodded, putting a hand on Reek’s shoulder, which made the man whimper and cringe in fear. He frowned, but his focus was Jaskier. Geralt climbed the stairs, finding the halls empty and silent, but filled with the stench of dried blood and piss. And _fear_. It stunk, and angered Geralt more than he could rightly say. 

**“Jaskier?”** he called, hearing a rapid heartbeat from the first room he approached. Geralt opened the door, and the smells inside knocked him back. **“Jask?”** A whimper from the other side of the bed, but it wasn’t Jaskier. Geralt slowly walked over, seeing a woman, shaking. She cried out when she saw him, shielding herself. 

**“Ser, please…I…I’ll be good. He…I won’t complain. I…I’m Arya. I swear. I’m Arya…”** Geralt was already regretting having killed Ramsay so easily. 

**“You’re not Arya. Ramsay is dead.”** The room stunk of so many men, and…dog. Geralt’s fists clenched as he realized what the scents in the room meant. Ramsay was worse than Jaskier had ever spoken out loud. It was no wonder he had nightmares. He quickly left the room, yelling for his bard. He had to be here. He _had_ to be.

**”Jaskier!”** Geralt could hear the desperation in his voice as he ran down the hall, listening and smelling for any sign of the man. He passed a room that smelled vaguely of him, but ignored it, stomping further down. But when he heard the soft whimper, the barely-audible heartbeat, the scrape of a chain, Geralt stopped. His own heart jumped up to near-human beats, rushing towards the door he’d ignored. 

He shoved the door open, and Jaskier’s smell hit him hard. It was corrupted, faint, but it was _him_. Thin, broken, in just as bad of shape as the woman in the other room claiming to be Arya. **“Jaskier…gods…Jaskier?”** Geralt was certain he had a heart, in this moment, for how it broke upon seeing the bard, curled up and whimpering on the floor like this. He quickly crossed the room, grabbing Jaskier’s shoulder. He was alive. Thank the gods, he was fucking alive. 

Jaskier shrieked and pulled back from him, and Geralt remembered; the hair. He didn’t look like himself. He reached for Jaskier again, feeling the prickle of warm tears threaten his eyes. **“Jaskier, it’s me. It’s Geralt…”** But the bard pulled from him again, crying. Geralt didn’t understand, his stomach coiling up tightly at the sight.

**“This is too far. Too far. I…I won’t try to leave. I promise. You shouldn’t have come, Geralt!”** The words were like a slap to the face, and Geralt just sat there on his knees, staring at Jaskier and trying to understand. What had Ramsay done to him? Now he was sure he shouldn’t have killed the bastard so quickly. He deserved far worse than the severing of his neck under Geralt’s hands. 

**”Leave me! Or kill me! Please…please fucking kill me.”** Tears began to run down Geralt’s cheeks, and he was unable to find the words to comfort his bard. How could Jaskier ever beg for death? From _him_? He wanted to grab the bard, pull him into his lap, hug him and kiss him until he was ok again. But Geralt knew it wouldn’t work like that, and that broke his heart. With Jaskier, the monster was always one he couldn’t fight. 

Before he realized it, Jaskier was scrambling for him, and for half a second Geralt hoped it was for comfort, until he saw the hand going for his belt. For his dagger. He grabbed the bard’s wrists, panicking. What was he meant to do? This was new. This was all new. He didn’t want Jaskier to feel this pain. **“Let me fucking die!”** The bard’s face wasn’t even his own, it was some fearful, wild animal that happened to look like Jaskier. Geralt felt his stomach twist painfully, and he gathered Jaskier’s wrists into one hand.

**“Axii,”** he muttered, making the sign. And that broke his heart even further, having to do this to Jaskier. The bard froze, staring at his hand. **“Sleep…rest…Jask I’m so sorry.”** When the man collapsed, Geralt caught him, pulling him to his lap and staring at nothing. He hugged the bard for what felt like hours, before Arya’s little hand touched his shoulder.

**“Geralt…?”** her voice was soft, tentative, **“Is he…?”**

**“He’s alive,”** Geralt grunted, feeling the tears that had apparently been streaming down his face. **“I don’t know what Ramsay did to him. I…he’s alive. Jaskier’s alive.”**

Arya went to the shackle, pulling a small pin from her waistband, picking the lock to release it from Jaskier’s ankle. The limb was rubbed raw and smelled infected. Geralt growled, pulling Jaskier’s face into his chest. **“He needs a bed. Not here. A…do you…”**

**“Bran’s old room. It’s up in the tower. Far from here. Geralt, you’re hurt?”** Arya knelt down and touched his wounds, making the witcher hiss and grunt. 

**“Jaskier first. I’ll live.”** Geralt stood before she could protest, lifting Jaskier and waiting for her to lead the way. It wasn’t a far walk, and Geralt _had_ endured worse in his time. But the pain in his chest would not fade. He’d gotten Jaskier back, but Ramsay’s words haunted him. Whatever he’d done, the bard wasn’t going to be the same. Arya stopped some servants along the way, to bring them a wash basin and medical supplies.

**“There’s a girl down the hall,”** Geralt grunted with a nod of his head, **“Says she’s you.”** Arya frowned at that.

**“I’ll see what that’s about after we get you two cleaned up,”** she sighed. She was so young, but already a leader, he noted. Perhaps she was more like the Lionness than Renfri, after all. Up in the tower, Geralt laid Jaskier carefully on the bed, his jaw tense as he looked down at the bard. He gruffly took the basin and lotions from the servants who arrived shortly after, scaring them. Geralt didn’t care, not when his mind was fraught like this. 

**“Geralt, maybe I should-”**

**“I’ll do it.”**

**“But it might be better if-”**

**“Damn it Arya, I said I’ll do it!”** Geralt’s voice cracked, and he stared down at the bard. He didn’t want to see the tears that he now smelled, welling up in the girl’s eyes. The witcher couldn’t have blamed her if she left, and was surprised, but relieved, that she stayed. Geralt carefully cleaned the blood from Jaskier’s ankles, face, arms…everywhere he could, without disrobing the bard. He smelled far worse things on him, and for the first time his hands shook with rage. 

Arya gently took the rag from him, and Geralt fell back to the floor. He was silently crying now, staring ahead as Arya cleaned Jaskier and tended to his wounds. Had he become so pathetic, so soft, that he couldn’t even do this for the bard? Geralt tried to meditate, but found it impossible. When he opened his eyes, Arya was kneeling by him, waiting for something.

**“If you won’t let me stitch them, then at least let me put an ointment on, Geralt. Please?”** He grunted a brusque agreement, throwing his armor in frustration as he peeled each piece off. Arya remained unphased, waiting for him to sit back and let her work. Geralt peeled his shirt off, feeling numb as she began to clean him.

**“That’s an awful lot of scars,”** she noted, receiving a muted _hmm_ in answer. Maybe if Jaskier had been weak, but ecstatic to be rescued, he might have been in a more conversational mood. This husk he had scraped from the floor…it was barely Jaskier. Arya was silent the rest of the time she cleaned Geralt’s wounds and packed the supplies back away, neatly.

**“There’s a room just down the hall if-”**

**“No.”**

She just stared at him for a moment, and Geralt let his gaze slide up to meet hers. He could barely see the girl nod through the haze of tears. It was unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he cried at all, let alone to this extent. Arya nodded, quietly leaving the room. 

When the door shut, Geralt leaned forward against his knees, sighing. Jaskier was breathing softly, his heartbeat slow and steady. The witcher carefully climbed into bed, putting a gentle arm around Jaskier’s waist. **“I should have gotten here sooner,”** he muttered, pressing a tearful kiss to the bard’s hair. It was selfish, he knew, but it was a comfort to hold Jaskier in his arms again, at least for a little while. He’d get out of bed before the bard could wake, he told himself.


	3. The Kindest Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for attempted suicide and PTSD symptoms

Jaskier didn’t know how long he had slept, but he knew for certain that he hadn’t slept in a bed. There was a large, warm arm over his stomach, and he could only imagine how he had ended up here. He didn’t want to open his eyes yet, because he was not prepared to face whatever had happened between the time of his nightmare and now. Gods…that had been the worst one yet, in fact. It felt so real, and he had been so terrified. But Geralt would never come here, and he’d certainly not play Ramsay’s game. Jaskier was certain of that.

No, Ramsay had done something to him. Perhaps it had been a witch, or a potion ground up into his food, or…well, it wasn’t as plain as it seemed, Jaskier knew that. Oddly, he didn’t feel abused or sore. In fact, it felt as though someone had taken care of his wounds, but that couldn’t be right. He had been beaten and left with rotting sores for days…weeks? He’d lost track of time entirely, and could very well have been in this hell for more than a year, unaware of the passage of time. 

Finally, Jaskier opened his eyes, nervously staring at the ceiling. The hand draped across his stomach wasn’t quite claiming, or aggressive. It was almost comforting. Familiar in its weight. Panic settled into Jaskier’s mind, and tears sprang to his eyes as he silently shook his head. This couldn’t have been real. It had been a dream, nothing more. Hadn’t it? Jaskier held his breath until his lungs burned painfully, and then sucked in air, though he could already feel his mind growing numb. Bile rose into his throat and he finally turned his head to look at whose arm was resting on him. 

**“No…no no no no…”** the words felt like they were squeezed from his body. He had thought he was safe, when he saw the dark hair that covered half the man’s face. But as he looked closer, there was no mistaking that particular chin, nor his cheekbones, and especially not the calm repose of his sleeping face. It hurt Jaskier. It _hurt_ to see Geralt like this again, like nothing had happened. Like the witcher hadn’t betrayed him. 

As silently as possible, Jaskier slipped out from beneath Geralt’s arm, holding his breath until he was safely away. He couldn’t leave the room. What if Ramsay had stationed a guard, to make sure he didn’t escape until Geralt was done with him? Jaskier was whimpering, clutching at his arms and finding that he felt rather very cold. He looked around the room, seeing Geralt’s armor, and weapons, lying in a corner. That couldn’t be right. Had the witcher grown stupid in the short time they’d been apart? His blue eyes nervously slid to Geralt, still sleeping, and then back to the weapons, just there to freely grab. 

He didn’t even think, he just ran for the weapons. Only one thought was on his mind, and that was to stop everything before this new hell was unleashed on him. Jaskier struggled to unlatch a dagger from the discarded belt, his hands were so damn weak and shaky, but finally he managed it. Jaskier fell to the floor, and pressed the blade to his wrist, crying out. He didn’t stifle himself nearly in time, it seemed.

**“ _Jaskier_!”** Geralt crossed the floor instantly, grabbing his wrist and twisting the blade out of his grip. 

**“Please, please let go…let me go. Just…Geralt please, I’m not trying to run!”** Jaskier tried to grab for the other dagger, but the witcher held him close in a rough bear hug. He could feel Geralt’s heartbeat against his back, which meant that the witcher’s heart had to be racing. He didn’t want to think of why that was, because any old reasoning for that was nothing but a lie. He knew that now. 

**“It’s ok, Jask. I’m here…I’m never letting you go again.”** Jaskier was shivering in silent cries, his body limp under Geralt’s strong grasp. He’d wanted nothing more than this, for nearly a decade, and now…now he couldn’t stand the way his skin burned at the touch. **“He’s gone.”** That made the bard grow very still, though he didn’t dare look at Geralt yet. Apparently this was taken as a positive, as the arms around him grew loose. **“Ramsay. I killed him. He’s gone, Jaskier. I swear it.”**

Jaskier found it in him, somehow, to pull away from Geralt, shoving his back against the farthest available wall. He watched the witcher carefully collect his weapons and wrap them in one of the unused blankets. Geralt approached slowly, carefully, with his hands up in surrender. **“You got yourself pretty good there, Jask. Can I-”**

**“No!”** He shielded himself from Geralt’s approach, whimpering when he felt strong hands gently urge his freshly injured arm away from him. Jaskier kept his face hidden as the witcher cleaned and dressed the wound. He didn’t want to see the look on Geralt’s face, or see his face at all, actually. Jaskier was silent while the witcher patched him up. For once, he wasn’t grunting or humming in thought. It made the silence that much worse, and Jaskier had _always_ hated silence. 

He didn’t look at the witcher, nor did he answer, when Geralt asked what he needed. As though he truly cared. Jaskier didn’t believe it for a moment, and flinched when Geralt tried to reach for him again. The bard closed his eyes, waiting for either a strike or a softer but still unwanted touch. Thankfully none ever came, and eventually Geralt stood. Jaskier never saw the hurt and confusion on the witcher’s face, though he wouldn’t have believed it even if he had. No, Ramsay had ensured that his trust in the witcher was shattered entirely, by this point. 

Geralt was fussing about the room, and Jaskier slowly opened his eyes. The witcher was locking and securing the windows, and collecting anything that could conceivably be used to harm himself. **“That’s not fair,”** he whispered, immediately clamping a hand over his mouth. He’d forgotten that Geralt could hear things most people couldn’t, so muttering was one more thing he could no longer get away with. Geralt only glanced at him, looking sorrowful, and continued to gather up the things that could remove Jaskier from this hell. 

He went to the door, and began handing things to whoever was stationed outside it, speaking in a soft, deep tone. Jaskier couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but the guard soon left. The only items left were Geralt’s armor and weapons, the former of which the older man began to strap onto himself again. Jaskier looked away every time Geralt met his eyes, nervous for what was going to happen next. He didn’t believe that Ramsay was dead. How could he? Ramsay had pulled worse tricks on him in that regard, but this…bringing Geralt back to him. It was too far, and it was too painful. It was a dull, rusted blade sank deep between his ribs, cutting his heart out in slow and measured slits. 

**“Jaskier…”** Tension hung in the air following his name, and he knew anything less than acknowledgement would be met with severe punishment later on. That hurt even more, to look into the gentle suns that had once inspired many an unsung lyric. **“Please rest,”** was all the witcher said, frowning as he left the room. 

He was alone, finally, and hated how empty it left him feeling. A part of him still longed for Geralt’s touch, the part of him that Ramsay had not yet found. Was this the point, then, in bringing the witcher here? To break him completely, to make him as far gone as poor Theon? Gods, the depravity truly knew no limits. Jaskier was going to watch his own heart break all over again, and he was powerless to stop it. This hurt worse than the Countess, worse than any lover who had spurned him. Jaskier pulled the fur down from the bed and wrapped himself in it, leaning into the corner and trying to find some rest again. 

Apparently he had fallen into a fast and deep sleep, as he was startled awake by a hand at his shoulder. Jaskier immediately regretted taking the blanket, and was prepared to apologize and beg Ramsay for mercy, just this once, though he knew it was fruitless. Instead, he was met with rich, brown eyes, and shaggy brown hair framing a young girl’s face. 

**“Sorry, sorry. Jaskier? I’m Arya Stark. Ah…you might not remember me.”**

He blinked, narrowing his eyes and sitting up slightly. Apparently she had barely grown at all, from what he remembered. **“Oh gods, it really is you this time, isn’t it? I…I’m so sorry.”** Arya wrinkled her nose a little, and reached for his hand, taking it between both of her own. Her hands were so tiny, so gentle, and so _warm_. For the first time in a while, Jaskier felt safe. 

**“Don’t be stupid,”** she bluntly said, **“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m sorry, if anything. I should’ve killed Ramsay ages ago. I’m only sorry Geralt got to him first.”** Arya saw the way Jaskier flinched at the witcher’s name, and looked so incredibly sad and young for a moment. **“He’s really dead, Jaskier. I swear it. You’re safe now. We’re going to take care of you. Will you trust me?”**

She looked almost exactly like she had, years ago, just slightly taller and somehow worn. Jaskier knew this was really Arya, and not a trick. The fact that Ned Stark’s daughter was here, telling him that he was ok…he wanted to believe it. He really did. 

**“Can…can I eat?”** he nervously asked, gulping and preparing for the worst. Just in case. Arya nodded, her jaw tight as she stood to get the tray of food she had apparently brought with her. Jaskier hadn’t smelled it or even seen it. This was ridiculous though, surely, that he was being taken care of by a little girl. She didn’t even ask if he would move up to the bed. Arya sat right there with him, balancing the plates in her lap. Jaskier was nervous to even ask further, and maybe Arya realized that, as she then began to cut pieces into the bread and meat, holding small bites up to him on a fork. 

This wasn’t right, he couldn’t just accept her feeding him by hand while his own shook pathetically beneath the fur. He was a grown man, she was a tiny little girl, and he missed…no. No, he wouldn’t even think the witcher’s name. Jaskier ate barely a third of what was on the tray, but was eternally grateful for Arya’s silence in his quirks. Perhaps _quirk_ was too tame a word. He was damaged, now. Beyond damaged, in fact. Jaskier felt tears spring to his eyes as the realization sank in. He was truly broken, in ways even he couldn’t find words to describe. 

**“Hey. Jaskier. I remember once…it was so long ago, wasn’t it?”** Arya set the tray to a side, leaning back against the wall, as though she was relaxing with a friend. **“You and your father had come to visit. You and Robb and Theon and Jon went out into the woods to play knights, and remember, I followed you all. Robb told me to go back home, but Jon played swords with me. You sang for us, and used the songs of all the old knights.”** Jaskier felt the barest smile tempt its way to his lips, for a ghost of a moment. 

**“I remember,”** he finally croaked. His throat was so damned _dry_. Arya had a jug of water right there for him, as though she knew what he needed. What he really needed was to die. But he wasn’t going to burden her with that confession. Jaskier drowned the words in cool waters, and found himself guzzling the entire jug before he knew what he was doing. It was like he had never drank water before, and the mere taste of it was the nectar of some sensual goddess, come to nurture and feed him.

**“You don’t have to sleep in the corner, you know.”** Arya’s suggestion was gentle, and Jaskier sighed, nodding. Now he knew, but it would likely be a while until he felt safe to do so again. **“Geralt really cares about you. I don’t know what Ramsay did, but it’s not true. Whatever he said.”**

Jaskier tensed, his eyes darting to a side at her. **“If he cared so much he wouldn’t have sold me to Ramsay in the first place.”** Saying it out loud tugged some rough spot inside him, and he couldn’t stop the sob that burst from him. Well this was embarrassing, to dissolve into a crying mess in front of a teenage girl. 

Arya just gripped his wrist, sitting in silence with him until he had calmed again. Jaskier took a few long and shaky breaths, wiping his eyes. **“Sorry. Sorry I…if he regrets what he did I…understand that. But I’ll never understand how it happened to begin with.”** Geralt had betrayed him, it was simple as that. Ramsay was a liar, and a sadistic, cruel man, but he had just _known_ things. Impossible things. Jaskier couldn’t trust him anymore, not after all that. 

**“But-”** Arya cut herself off, looking to a side with a frown. There was something she wanted to say, but wouldn’t. Jaskier could feel his mind start to rationalize and try to sympathize with Geralt, but he…he just couldn’t. He forced himself to cut those thoughts off. If he let himself get fooled again, the heartbreak would be even worse the third time. Jaskier knew he couldn’t handle that much. It would kill him. Arya had turned towards him, and hugged him hard, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. **“I’m going to send the healer up soon. You’re in…it’s bad. Ok? So don’t be worried if they show up. They’re here to help.”**

Jaskier inched his foot out from the fur, looking at the state of his ankle. He hadn’t really even seen himself since yesterday. The hug was too warm, too comfortable, and made his heart ache in a twisted way. **“Thank you, Arya. I…I’ll let them see to me. Ok? Did you find Jeyne?”** His heart went out to the poor woman, who had been abused at Ramsay’s hand for far longer than he had. Being locked in a room just down the hall had been an even worse torture, to hear her screaming and pleading echoing past his door.

Arya nodded, standing to take the tray. He was already missing the company, and hated the idea of being alone with his thoughts. **“We’re taking care of her now. And Theon. They both told us how you tried to help them. So we’re going to take care of you too, alright?”** Jaskier frowned, but shrugged an acknowledgement. **“Please use the bed. This is your home, as long as you need it. I…I’ll see you soon. We’ll go for a walk later.”**

Left alone again, Jaskier stared at the bed, slowly and carefully inching towards it. He kept an ear out for anyone who might burst in and begin to beat him for daring to think he could actually use it. It had been rather comfortable, he had to admit, although he knew it was going to smell like Geralt. He could get past that, though. If he was truly allowed these comforts now. Maybe Arya was right? She certainly seemed earnest enough. Or maybe the guilt had gotten to the witcher, and he didn’t tell her everything. That had to be it. Geralt lied to a child, and convinced her that he truly missed Jaskier. That was the thought that lulled him back to sleep, though the nightmares returned to plague him. At least three times worse than they had been before he returned to Westeros. But his body was exhausted, and he could only fight sleep for so long. He knew he could take as much rest as he wanted now. He was safe.


	4. Arduous

Geralt had thrown himself into training the rest of that day, but it still didn’t drive out the way Jaskier had looked at him. The scent of the bard’s blood stained his nose, and he couldn’t understand what had happened to bring him here. Geralt hacked a sparring dummy in half with his steel, shouting at it as it fell. He couldn’t rid himself of the scent of Jaskier’s _fear_. Geralt had not experienced heartache the way humans did, not since he was a very young child, but he imagined that it felt like this. Jaskier had been _terrified_ of him, and tried to kill himself. That had hurt. Geralt had locked himself in a spare room for the better part of an hour, and let his tears fall. He hated how it felt, how his stomach twisted and burned, how it felt as though there was a lump of food caught in his throat.

“Geralt.” 

He swung the sword on instinct and nearly struck through Arya, who was swift enough to duck the blow. Geralt dropped the sword, and then to his knees. His shoulders were tense, eyes wide, and his expression was mournful. “Arya. I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t. Geralt it’s been three hours. Come have some food, alright?” Arya reached down for his hand, and it burned him. Geralt pulled back from the touch, but she only became more aggressive in grabbing it. “You won’t be any good to him if you run yourself into exhaustion.”

“I have more stamina than humans,” he grumbled, but let Arya pull him away from the training yard anyway. He had never felt so lost before. Even when Jaskier had been taken from him, there had been purpose. He had wept for the bard, but there was a goal. An end. One way or another, he had been bound and determined to have Jaskier in his arms again. This, though…this was impossible. He didn’t know what to do. 

“Wait here,” Arya set him at a long table in the hall, and presumably left to fetch him some food. Geralt rested his elbows on the smooth wood and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t hope to meditate, not when his mind was a cacophonous frenzy. So he sat in silence, barely acknowledging when he was rejoined.

“Ser?” He knew it hadn’t been Arya by the smell. Not nearly as pungent as when he’d first caught it, in the tombs, but still the acrid stench of fear and hesitation colored the man. Geralt grunted once in response, refusing to look at him. “It…it’s my doing. That he fears you now.” 

His head snapped to look at Reek and fix him with a withering stare. It made the smaller man whimper and twitch nervously, backing away as he fidgeted with his shirt. Geralt noted that he was missing fingers, and the shirt hung on his frame. He had been treated poorly in his time here, and it was no wonder that he had been so relieved by Ramsay’s death. Still, his statement did nothing for Geralt’s mood. “Explain. Quickly.” He was in no mood for flowery words as an attempt to ease his anger. If Reek was responsible for Jaskier’s attempt on his own life, it would take every ounce of self-restraint to allow him to live.

“He spoke in his sleep. And dreamt of you often,” Reek was staring at the floor, twisting his shirt between his remaining fingers. It must have taken great courage to say this now, given the waves of fear that kept rolling off him. “Near the end, he…he dreamt of the worst. He wasn’t allowed sleep, ser. Lord Bolton fed ‘im things from the forest. He told us about dragons, and a mountain…and…that you sent ‘im away.” Reek glanced at him, clearly expecting a retaliation. 

“And Ramsay used that against him?” Geralt asked after a long silence. Reek nodded. His entire body tensed, waiting for whatever the witcher might do in his anger. “He would have beaten you even worse had you not told him, wouldn’t he?” 

Reek was shaking, continuing to wait for the burst of anger he seemed to have become so used to over however long he’d been here. “He beat me for not discovering it sooner. I didn’t want to hurt ‘im, ser. But I had to. If you want my head for it now, I cannot fault you that.”

As angry as it made him, Geralt wasn’t going to kill an innocent man. Reek was a victim of circumstance, twisted and pushed by an evil that had already been slain. But now he knew why Jaskier was so terrified. It wasn’t because Ramsay had broken him alone. He’d taken advantage of Geralt’s faults and used it to shatter the bard. That explained it, but it still didn’t help him with how to undo it. “You should go, Reek.” The name made him flinch, but Geralt ignored it. “Thank you for telling me.” He turned his attention away again as his mind began to work through the ways he could possibly build the trust with Jaskier again. 

Reek skittered off as Arya returned with a servant, who carried a small feast. Geralt wasn’t particularly hungry, but he would entertain the girl’s desire to make sure he ate. “His name isn’t Reek,” she sounded annoyed. “He’s Theon Greyjoy. Or he was. I didn’t even recognize him when we got here.” The servant set down her tray of food, arranging platters and dishes Geralt didn’t recognize. He didn’t deserve to be waited on by anybody, but so long as he was Arya’s guest here, he wouldn’t outwardly protest. 

Geralt grunted, and immediately swallowed down the ale set before him. Rather than wait for the servant to feel obligated to refill it, he did it himself. He wasn’t likely to get drunk, but he was willing to try anything to dampen the thoughts in his head right now. “Geralt.” He didn’t look at the girl, focusing instead on ripping chunks of meat off the bird set before him. “Geralt he thinks-”

“I know what he thinks, Arya.” Geralt dropped the food in his hand, rubbing his palms over his face and resting them there. He could feel the sting of tears threatening again, and he would have done anything to stop the sensation. He heard Arya move to touch his arm before he felt her, but at least this time he didn’t blindly attack. “He’s been my loyal friend for years. And I couldn’t protect him. That’s all I had to do. Keep Jaskier safe, out of harm’s way. I brought him here…it’s my fault.” 

Arya’s chair scraped away from the table, and she was quickly hugging him, as tight as she possibly could. “He’s been through a lot. And that’s not your fault. It’s Ramsay’s fault. Geralt…where I trained, remember I told you about them? They have that well people would come to drink from, to-”

“I’m _not_ going to kill him,” Geralt snarled, snapping his head around to glare at her. She didn’t flinch under his stare, though. She very rarely did.

“Just listen and don’t assume what I’m going to say,” she retorted. Arya pulled away and sat again, carving at her food. “All I’m saying…people who were in better states than him that succeeded in killing themselves. Giving themselves up to the many-faced god.” Geralt never liked talk of gods or great cosmic beings. “I know he…he tried. But he didn’t. And he actually ate with me. I think that’s good. That maybe there’s still hope for him. And if he loves you like you think he did, then that’s something to hold onto, too.” 

He sighed, swallowing his ale. Geralt noted the way Arya watched him out of the corner of her eye, pretending she wasn’t keenly keeping an eye on what he was and wasn’t eating. He humored her worries, taking down as much food as he could stomach. “Not today. Perhaps not tomorrow,” he grunted, staring at his plate. “But before the rot takes Ramsay, I need to show him. I don’t think he believed me.” That was, if he could stand the taste of Jaskier’s fear as it attempted to drown him. He wasn’t sure he could do it, honestly. Not for himself, anyway. He would have to do it for Jaskier.  


  


* * *

  


  
Two days passed, and finally Geralt made his way up to the tower again. Jaskier had been allowed to roam freely, but had refused to leave his room. He had wanted to give the bard space to realize that he was safe here, but it seemed he was still reluctant to believe that. And so Geralt had made sure to arrange Ramsay’s body in the courtyard, ensured that it would be clear for Jaskier to come down and see, and now was at the bard’s door again. He felt stupid, and stood there for longer than he cared to count the minutes for. Finally, he knocked on the door, as gently as he could.

“Jaskier. It’s Geralt. If you would indulge me, I want to show you something.” The room was silent, apart from the quickened pace of Jaskier’s heart on the other side of the door. It slowly grew louder, and to his relief slower, right up until the door opened. The bard refused to look him in the eye, but he was at least looking more rested. Still, Geralt felt his stomach turn to lead at the sight of him. His wounds were still so fresh, and he could smell the infection that was threatening to poison his blood. The healers were doing all they could, and finally Jaskier had allowed them to tend him fully. 

“Will you walk with me?” Geralt felt tormented by this. Jaskier still smelled of fear, but not nearly as much as he had a few days ago. The bard nodded, but gripped the door tightly, jaw tense. “It doesn’t have to be this moment. But there’s something you ought to see. I’m here, when you’re ready.” That was the first time Jaskier looked him in the eye, and the distrust, the pain that was in that glance…it was nearly enough to break him. Geralt stood back and dropped his gaze, giving Jaskier all the space he needed. 

It felt like hours they stood there, until Jaskier finally took a small step forward. Geralt was keenly aware of his scent, the pace of his heart, how anxiety flooded him with just that small movement. Geralt didn’t move, knowing that Jaskier was testing the boundaries in place. If he bolted, that was his choice. The witcher hoped he wouldn’t. “Alright,” the bard finally rasped, drawing Geralt’s gaze to his. “Let’s…let’s go see it, then.” He was trying to put on a brave face, Geralt could tell. It was a face he’d seen before, but to have it aimed at him was painful. 

“Follow me,” he said, turning to lead the way. He could smell the brief spike in fear when he finally moved. Geralt just clenched his jaw and kept going. Jaskier followed five paces behind, and the witcher kept his eyes forward. If he looked back and saw fear and panic or hesitation in Jaskier’s eyes, he would lose the bit of composure he had left. He wanted the bard to know that he respected and trusted him. If Jaskier wanted to run, Geralt wouldn’t stop him. 

“Geralt…” Jaskier sounded afraid as they stepped into the courtyard. The witcher turned, seeing his face. He was shivering and gripping the doorway. His pale eyes were fixed firmly on the body laid out in the middle of the yard. Geralt approached slowly, but Jaskier was too transfixed to even realize he was doing so.

“Hey…Jaskier…” He put a gentle hand on the bard’s shoulder, making him jump and break his stare. “He’s dead. I killed him myself. I crushed his throat, but I wish I had done worse. He deserved to suffer for what he’s done to you.” Jaskier’s jaw muscle was twitching, and he looked back at the body. Geralt gently took his hand and pulled him from the doorway. “It’s ok. I’m not letting go.”

The bard hesitantly followed him, the stench of fear growing thicker the closer they got. Ramsay’s corpse stared at the grey sky above, mouth hung open in a dumb expression. Geralt didn’t know what to say, other than to show Jaskier that he was safe. If this didn’t get through to him, then he had no idea what else to do. The bard whimpered and pressed close to Geralt as they approached, and the witcher couldn’t recall ever seeing him like this. Even when he’d had his nightmares, he always was strong, but accepted Geralt’s presence. He put his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and stopped in place. They were still a good twenty paces from the body. He’d never seen Jaskier seem so small before, and it made him want to shield the bard from anything, everything, that might threaten him.

In a flash, Jaskier ripped the dagger from his belt. Geralt was so blindsided that he couldn’t even react quick enough. But the bard wasn’t trying to hurt himself this time. He rushed at Ramsay’s body with a shout, stabbing the corpse over and over, violently. Jaskier was shouting incoherently, until he finally collapsed on the ground, covered in dead blood and sobbing. He knelt up to stab Ramsay’s throat, leaving the dagger there. He ran frantic hands through his hair, and his entire body shivered. 

Geralt knelt down silently, one hand laying gently on his back, and Jaskier crumpled against him. “He’s really dead…he’s dead. Gods I…I…Geralt…” He shushed the bard, and carefully moved to lift Jaskier in his arms. He was met with no resistance, and even found those arms weakly slung around his neck. The bard cried into his chest, murmuring nonsense. Geralt found servants on his way back to the tower, and had them direct him to the nearest baths. They would bring clothes for Jaskier, as well, though Geralt wasn’t sure if he would accept the witcher’s assistance. He would be there, regardless.

Jaskier sat there silently as Geralt helped him undress, though the witcher stopped when he was down to his smallclothes. Geralt undressed himself and slid into the large bath, facing away so the bard would feel comfortable. Eventually Jaskier did get in, but he just sat, leaning against the edge. He slid further down, letting his head rest on the stone and staring at the ceiling. “Jaskier…will you let me help you?” Geralt grunted as softly as possible. The bard barely nodded, but he still at least gave that. The witcher took his time, washing the blood from his face and chest and hands, and washing through his hair as well. It was always most relaxing when Jaskier washed him, when they’d still been on the continent. He was going to take the bard back there as soon as he was well enough for travel.

The servants brought clothes that were from the previous masters of Winterfell, and left them alone once more. Geralt left the bath first, to dry and dress himself. He sat there for as long as Jaskier needed, before the bard shakily pulled himself out. Thankfully, he allowed the witcher to help him once more, with redressing. 

“Can you walk?”

Jaskier shrugged in silent response. Geralt nodded, and lifted the bard to carry him back to his room. The silence was unsettling, but it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it had been the first morning since his return. Geralt dismissed the servants who waited for them, still finding their presence entirely odd. 

“I needed you to see him. I didn’t know it was going to-”

“I wouldn’t have believed he was really dead otherwise,” Jaskier interrupted him. Geralt set him down in the bed, pulling furs over him and brushing the hair out of his face. 

“Jaskier. The night he took you, I…that was the soundest I have slept in a very long time. And I meant everything I said. Whatever he’s done to convince you otherwise…I wish I could kill him a thousand times for it. But I will show you that I would never do this to you. Never, Jask.” Those blue eyes stared up at him with so much sorrow and hope, and it took all Geralt had in him to stand. He was fully intending on giving Jaskier the space he needed, even if it killed him to do it. 

“Don’t leave me again,” came the barest whisper from the bard, once his back was turned. Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier even intended for him to hear it, but it put a drop of warmth into his mending heart. Yet still left him breathless and heartbroken at the same time. Geralt pulled the large chair close to the bed and sat there beside Jaskier. The bard’s hand barely crept out from under the fur. He still didn’t look at Geralt, but he was reaching for the witcher. For comfort, or for something else, he didn’t know. But Geralt took that hand gently in his, and held it until they both drifted off to sleep.


End file.
